


pull the trigger

by CrimsonFandomTrash



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Coma, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Dies, David cage is a hack, Hank Anderson Dies, I'm Bad At Titles, Just thought I'd point it out, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, That's not actually relevant to this story, co-dependency is not a healthy thing kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 10:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17078606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonFandomTrash/pseuds/CrimsonFandomTrash
Summary: He kept it to himself. Maybe he should tell someone, but without Hank around, he couldn’t really give a rat’s ass about himself. The only person he really would have wanted to tell, anyway, was in a hospital a mile from here, seven months deep in a coma. He could have told Gavin or Nines, but he didn’t.The other thing keeping him from reaching out to anyone was not wanting to be a burden. Nobody wanted to deal with his issues, they all already had problems of their own. Why should his mental stability matter to anyone else? It didn’t affect them, in the long run.So, that’s how Connor ended up here, at the kitchen table, with a revolver sitting innocently in front of him.





	pull the trigger

  _“Some things, I just can’t forget. Whatever I do, they’re still there… eating away at me.”_

  Hank’s words from before Connor had woken up made sense now.

  _“I don’t have the guts to pull the trigger… so I kill myself a little every day. That’s probably difficult for you to understand, huh, Connor? Nothing very rational about it…”_

   _Likelihood of self-destruction: High_

  Maybe it was wrong, wanting to jump ship the moment something like this happens, but… he couldn’t care.

  Seven months ago, Hank slipped into a coma. They were on the scene of a crime, the Lieutenant slipped on a puddle of blood and hit his head on a counter.

  He was, of course, concerned when it happened. Concerned, with time, aged into anxiety, and anxiety had increased ten-fold into full-blown panic. He’d been a mess for the last seven months, mood constantly shifting between different shades of unhappy. He was angry, sad, lonely, frustrated, and more recently… depressed.

  It took a little bit to recognize, at first. When he started feeling it, his first thought was that he was probably just having a shittier day than normal- when all you’ve had for five-plus months is shitty days, you get pretty used it. A shittier than normal day turned into two shittier than normal days, then three, and four, and five, and six…

  Soon, all his shittier than normal days started even getting worse than the last. His diagnostic program helpfully read out every symptom he was experiencing right in his field of view one night, and he immediately clicked it into place.

  Common symptoms, of course, were mood swings, sadness, and general discontent. Check, check, and check. Behavioral symptoms included agitation, excessive crying, irritability, and social isolation. If these symptoms were a grocery shopping list, Connor would basically be able to call it done. Some of the only ones he wasn’t experiencing had to do with appetite, sleep, and weight. He could not gain weight, he didn’t have an appetite, and had no need for sleep; other than that, there weren’t many other things that didn’t point to depression.

  He kept it to himself. Maybe he should tell someone, but without Hank around, he couldn’t really give a rat’s ass about himself. The only person he really would have wanted to tell, anyway, was in a hospital a mile from here, seven months deep in a coma. He could have told Gavin or Nines, but he didn’t.

  The other thing keeping him from reaching out to anyone was not wanting to be a burden. Nobody wanted to deal with his issues, they all already had problems of their own. Why should his mental stability matter to anyone else? It didn’t affect them, in the long run.

  So, that’s how Connor ended up here, at the kitchen table, with a revolver sitting innocently in front of him.

  The only thing that keeps him from picking the gun up is the memory of finding Hank passed out on his own floor, a small puddle of whiskey and this same gun next to him. He thought about that night a lot, especially lately, and especially right now.

  Connor can’t get cold, but that memory always sends a chill up his ‘spine’ (or where his spine would be if he had one, really). The thought of Hank dying has always been a stress-inducing one, but it’s even worse, now that the man is dead to the world.

  Honestly? The doctors already told him two months ago that the probability of Hank waking up was slim. Already asked him if they should pull the plug. Of course, Connor had refused. His bankbook sure was suffering from all the medical bills he was paying, but fuck, it’s not like he had anything else to worry about; he doesn’t need food, and Hank already paid the mortgage on the house, so the only thing other than hospital bills was water and electric, which were relatively cheap enough.

  A small part of him knows now, though, that Hank isn’t waking up. It was actually a bit closer to pushing on eight months now, truthfully. He knew people could wake up from comas at varying times, sometimes weeks, or months, or years, but… something just told him Hank wasn’t getting out of this one.

  There were a lot of conflicts stirring him up right now. Not wanting to die, so Hank could continue to live, but knowing that Hank continuing to live would probably be a fruitless cause, since Hank was about as good as dead, anyway. He couldn’t pay Hank’s hospital bills if he offed himself, but he wasn’t so sure there was any point in paying them anymore.

  The gun sat there, not even a foot away from him, metal gleaming in the dim overhead light. Taunting him. Half of him screamed at himself to pick it up, the other half told him to not. The first time he nearly self-dest- … tried to kill himself, he had to literally throw his gun to the other side of the room to stop himself. He’d curled up in a ball on his bed and had a nice sized panic attack afterward. Now, he was just staring down at the revolver that had spent the last few years locked away in a drawer, unused since the day it was put there. There was still a bullet in the chamber. The shot would kill him.

  Why was suicide necessarily the answer? Connor had thought about this a lot. He’d always known Hank would be taken from him eventually; all organic creatures die, at some point, and it wasn’t like Hank had ever taken very good care of himself. Connor had expected to get fifteen, maybe twenty years with Hank if he was lucky.

  He’d already known, basically as soon as he’d been able to form an opinion on the other man, and develop a relationship with him, that he didn’t feel he’d have much purpose after the fact. Maybe he shouldn’t base his own self-worth on Hank, maybe it was a dangerous mindset to want to not live for very long after the man’s eventual passing, but he didn’t care. The fact of the matter was that he was never going to find anyone like Hank ever again, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care. He didn’t _want_ anyone else. So without anyone else, he was alone, and he didn’t want to be alone, either.

  All of this was going through his head, trying to help him with his decision. Hank was basically already dead. Within two weeks of going into a coma, the survival rate of patients drops to 2%. Two percent! He had a better chance of living hanging off a roof five years ago. He had a better chance of living in a room with an armed and dangerous deviant at Stratford Tower. He even had a better chance of living when Connor-60 held them both at gunpoint in its attempts to stop the Revolution.

  As much as he didn’t want it to be true, Connor had to accept the fact that Hank wasn’t coming out of this alive. Whether he kept paying to keep him on life support or not, Hank was going to die- if not from the coma itself, then from the strain said coma was putting on his body right now. Even if he did live, his health was going to be so piss-poor, he would want to be dead. Truthfully, as harsh of a statement as it was, Hank really was better off dead, at this point.

  With that revelation under his belt, there was still something else Connor needed to ask himself; was he better off dead, too?

  Probably. There might be a few people who missed him when he was gone. His brother, and Gavin, maybe. The Jericho crew, or at least Markus might mourn him. Maybe a couple other co-workers. Other than that… well, there probably wouldn’t be many other people, and they would all heal and get over it. The only person who might not have gotten over it would be the guy laying in a hospital bed.

  He wouldn’t be alone anymore or have to deal with all the horrible deaths he’d caused before going deviant. He wouldn’t have to drag himself out of stasis, and roll out of bed, to go to a job he no longer loved anymore because the greatest part of it was as good as gone.

   _“But are you afraid to die, Connor?”_

  No. Not anymore.

  It was basically on auto-pilot that he picked the gun up and raised it to his head. He closed his eyes, finger on the trigger, resting there as he went over more memories in his head.

  He remembered meeting Hank at Jimmy’s and saving him on the roof. He remembered his first Christmas, and the first time he’d been able to appreciate snow-fall. He remembered walks, and movies, hugs, kisses, cuddles. He remembered everything, of course. Everything played in his head in the clearest definition it could. Almost all of his memories had Hank in them.

   _“What’ll happen if I pull this trigger? Hm? Nothing? Oblivion? Android heaven?”_

  Nothing, more than likely. Nothing sounded like a really attractive option right now.

  He took a few last unnecessary breaths in before his finger tightened around the trigger.

   _BANG_

______________

 

  When the precinct ran short of cops (which was like, forever, since they had always been understaffed), Gavin and Nines were sent on cases that had nothing to do with their particular division.

  This was one of those cases, although truthfully, he never expected to be walking into the Anderson household in this kind of situation.

  The moment he and Nines walked in the door, they both immediately went still recognizing the lifeless form slumped in a chair in the kitchen, a bullet hole in his head, and a revolver loosely in his grip at his side.

  An hour later, and they were both still having issues wrapping their head around it. They hadn’t noticed anything that would have suggested Connor was going to kill himself. There weren’t any hints. They sat on the front porch while trying to collect themselves, trying to think of something that should have tipped them off, but nothing. Nines sat there, looking through his memories looking for examples of Connor being suicidal in some shape or form with tears rolling down his cheeks the entire time. Gavin sat there numb.

  The report Nines had somehow managed to type up days later put Connor’s date of death on the 12th of September, 2043 at 1:00 AM.

  Hank Anderson officially died on the 15th of September, 2043 at 4:00 PM.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly? I wrote this at five in the morning cuz I wanted to write angst. It's just about six now, and I have to be up by like noon. Lmao thanks insomnia.  
> This one-shot is NOT canon to my Detroit: Become Human Stuff - HankCon & Reed900 Hell series, I literally just wanted to write angst, and this was what popped into my head. It's probably a dumb idea, but I hope y'all like it, anyway. I did this instead of sleeping, so y'all should leave a comment and a kudos. Those would definitely make up for the sleep I lost. So please do that because I need validation and the internet is the usually the only place I ever get validation.


End file.
